Obviously this guy is a fucking disaster, but just as obviously, I don’t seem to be able to avert my gaze. Unlike M. Jackson, I don’t think he’s a danger to anybody else — but, golly, the wrestling fixation….and the dolls? There’s some actual, sad “lost childhood” shit here, for everybody to see.

This is my fave record review in a while, from a very good blog of otherwise rather out shit. You’d do a lot worse than to check out this album, get past your associations of Sinatra with assholes in hats, and commune with its one-of-a-kind moodiness.